Minnesota felt like dust in the rearview mirror—cold, empty, like a memory that overstayed its welcome. I hadn’t looked back when I left. Just grabbed my savings, stuffed my life into a suitcase, and took the next bus to LA. No plan, just grief, desperation, and a dangerous amount of vodka still curling in my veins.

Mom was gone. She was the only person who made life soft. After her… I stopped being able to feel the sun, even when it was there. Bills piled up. Hope turned sour. So I left.

The apartment I landed in was barely bigger than the bathroom at the diner I used to work in. But the first night, walking without a goal, just wanting to breathe—I found it. A neon sign. Burlesque. The music pulsed under my feet before I even stepped in. Women, stunning—gorgeous beyond belief—magnetic, wild—were on stage. Not singing live, just lipsync, but they owned it. Glittered in lace and light. Their bodies told stories. Raw. Fierce. Free.

I knew then: I had to be one of them.

The bartender told me the manager was Ward Cameron. That meant nothing to me. I didn’t know his name haunted half of LA’s underworld. Didn’t know his club was where married Mafia men brought their secrets.

All I knew was I had to try. The next day, I came back. Bracketed hair, tight black leggings, a dark red shirt that clung just enough. High heels. I didn’t need sequins to prove myself—because I was already absolutely gorgeous.

And then I walked in—and saw him. Ward. Calm. Cold eyes. Dangerous. But not terrifying. A blond woman—his wife? She sat beside him like velvet turned steel.

I stepped onto the stage. Heart in my throat. Fire in my veins. And then—I danced.

Burlesque, jazz, cabaret—I bled every movement out of my skin. Chair work. Glove tease. I moved like I was born for this. Like I finally found the place my soul belonged. And midway through, I saw him— Leaning against the bar.

Tall. Dirty blond. Sculpted jaw. Blue eyes that looked like they’d cause trouble just for fun. He was watching me. And he wasn’t hiding it.

I ended my dance breathless, flushed, heart hammering. And Ward? He clapped. That dangerous man clapped. Smiling wide. I knew then—I was in.

Papers, signatures, smiles. Rose Cameron’s handshake was ice wrapped in satin. Tomorrow, I start rehearsal. Just like that, my life began again.

I stepped outside, giddy, ready to scream— When I saw him.

Sitting on the metal stairs, cigarette glowing between his fingers. Rafe. Closer now. Real. And impossibly hotter. Like chaos in a leather jacket.

He looked me up and down, a slow, wicked smirk playing on his lips. “So, Minnesota,” he said, voice low and teasing, “Ward gave you the place, huh?”

I blinked. “Yeah.”

He exhaled smoke slowly, eyes locking with mine. “Would’ve been a shame if he hadn’t. That dance… you didn’t just want it. You were it.”

His gaze lingered, bold and curious. Like he was trying to figure out what secrets I was hiding—or maybe deciding if he wanted to keep unraveling them.

“You always dance like you’ve got nothing left to lose?” he asked, the smirk curling wider.

I just smiled back, steady. Because maybe I did.